


F.E.A.R. - Delta Force

by Dovahgame2099



Category: F.E.A.R. (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Events of F.E.A.R. PS3 Bonus Mission, Explicit Language, Hallucinations, Psionics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 02:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20649830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahgame2099/pseuds/Dovahgame2099
Summary: SFOD-D Corporal John Harman is no stranger to a firefight gone awry, but in the next twenty-four hours of his life, he will experience the true meaning of FEAR.(Follows the story of the F.E.A.R. PS3. Bonus mission with some slight embellishments and omissions.)





	1. DECIMATION

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have a terrible habit for starting stories, and failing to finish them. (Just look at the last two I’ve done.) But I swear this one is complete. 
> 
> For now.
> 
> I’ve really been meaning to write a story set in the F.E.A.R. Universe for a good while now, but never got around to it.
> 
> I’m planning to either write a proverbial sequel to this story, and/or write something that takes place after F.E.A.R. 3. (I know the general consensus for the third game is that it is markedly bad, perhaps gameplay-wise and story-wise, but I’d like to utilise the ending’s ‘open-endedness’ and hopefully write something interesting and enjoyable.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Bird Squad has been deployed to the South River Wastewater Treatment Plant in Fairport, to investigate reports of a disturbance in the area.

Corporal John Harman was no stranger to a combat scenario, having served in the secretive ‘Delta Force’ for around two years, now, however, he felt an uneasy sensation creep up his spine, as he, two other operatives of the Force, and some obscure operative of another branch of the government that called themselves ‘F.E.A.R.’, who was quiet for almost the whole journey, prepared to rappel from the Blackhawk Helicopter in which they had journeyed here in.

It was a manoeuvre Harman was familiar with, he thought, as he fumbled with his harness, checking it over for what seemed like the one-hundredth time, and so he put his relative unease down to the slight swaying of the aircraft, almost undetectable amidst the blackness of the night sky.

Everything seemed present, and correct, and so his only option now, was to wait for the order:

”Go! Go! Go!” Came their commander, across from them, in the cockpit; theF.E.A.R. Operative had almost reached the ground by now, “Eager, ain’t he?” Harman called over to his squadmate, Irwin, as the two fixed their wires, and began their descent towards their objective; The South River Wastewater Treatment Plant

The air billowed around their uniforms, causing the wire to shake very slightly. No cause for concern - It was simply part of the procedure.

Harman hit the ground with a heavy thud, the weight of his armour shifting momentarily as he unlatched himself from his wire, which arose back up into the Helicopter by way of an autonomous mechanism, and retrieved his SMG from his back. It was a lightweight firearm, but, in the right hands could be a formidable weapon - He sincerely hoped that his were, indeed, the right hands, particularly against this unknown force of combatants with an unknown number, and an unknown point of origin. Dealing with compartmentalised information during briefings was a routine part of his station, though he could not shake the belief that they were severely undermanned for an operation for this calibre. 

But what did he know? The Force could have back-up waiting in the wings, a damn tank ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice, but then again, 

_So could they._

The entrance to the Water Treatment Plant was blocked by a gate, and rather than risk exposure to hostile forces likely entrenched around the area by deploying satchel charges, the F.E.A.R. Operative was dispatched to find a way to open the gate.

As the elusive operative pressed on to find a switch or a lever of some kind, Harman was ordered to conduct a perimeter sweep, and then protect the team’s flank. In combat scenarios, he was usually delegated to this, the polar opposite of a Point Man. The entrance of the Water Treatment Plant was surrounded by shipping containers of various sizes, all equally rusted, and seemingly neglected; the briefing had stated that the Plant had been out of commission, or at the least, poorly maintained, for at least a decade, and it showed. Harman took care to peer around the corners of each container, lest an ambush be sprung upon them. 

He was cornering a large crimson container when he heard a faint barely audible sound, that sounded much akin to whimpering, or crying, of some description. He took out his radio, and reported the disturbance to his compatriots “This is Little Bird Five to Command, I am currently investigating a disturbance west of Little Bird’s point of origin, over.” 

“Understood.” Came his squadron Commander, a man by the name of Kane “Proceed with caution.”

The disturbance was closer, now, the faint sound of crying raised in volume, Harman guessed it was one of the survivors of the initial assault, though he kept his weapon raised, choosing to take no risks. “Hello?” He called, hardly a professional remark, but he understood how he might be perceived, under all his tactical armaments. He hesitated, for a moment, before he rounded another corner; oddly, the sounds appeared to be further away - perhaps the individual was moving? Harman pinpointed the disturbance’s location, behind a blue crate. He was fairly separated from the rest of his team, now, but trusted they could handle any threats; after all, he had known some of these men for years, and -

The silence of the heavy air was torn apart by the cacophonous sound of rifle-fire.

Harman abandoned his pursuit, and sprinted with all his tenacity back towards his teammates. As he passed rows upon rows of shipping crates, the sound of gunfire had turned to screams of seemingly unfathomable pain;

Whatever had engaged them was winning.

Just as he edged around the final corner, the noises came to a halt.

_There was nothing._   


Nothing but blood, and bone. 

The F.E.A.R. Operative was there, too, very much alive, but, likely equally entrapped in pure horror towards the sickening scenario before them.

“What the fuck!?” Came Harman, exasperated, shaken to the core. “What the fuck happened?!” He directed this at the Operative, in an almost accusatory tone. 

The Operative remained silent, and went over to inspect the bodies.

“Answer me, for fuck’s sake!” Harman exclaimed, his anger rising to meet his sheer confusion. There was no way in hell that a highly-trained team such as the Little Bird Squad could be completely decimated in a matter of seconds, and yet, all that remained were charred corpses, coated in a viscous red. 

Harman, in turn, advanced to inspect the gore-covered skeletal figures that formerly called themselves ‘Delta Force’.

Somehow, their skin had been cleanly stripped from their bodies, sparing not even their organs, and leaving only steaming, blackened skeletons. Had they been immolated with some kind of advanced flamethrower? Was it radiation?

“What the fuck coulda done this?” He said, out loud, as the F.E.A.R. Operative began to walk further into the compound. Harman said nothing. If he wanted to go and get himself killed in a similar fashion, then who would he be to argue?

All he knew, was that Little Bird was down its whole squad, bar him, and that now, there was no chance in hell that he’d accompany some gun-toting mute with a death wish into whatever fucked up mess he’d be getting himself in.

Harman, took out his radio, and called-in the situation.

“Little Bird Five… Little Bird Five to Den Mother… We…”

_“We have a problem.”_


	2. FOXTROT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the brutal fate of the Little Bird Squad, Harman attempts to get himself back into the fight.

It had been only a few hours since Harman had seen the decimation which had befallen his squad, the scenario had been played over and over in his mind’s eye during the Helicopter evacuation to the SFOD-D forward command headquarters located in Fairport; the journey felt like it had taken forever, and yet, now all he wanted to do was throw himself back to the wolves.

“With all due respect, sir - “ The man said, to his commanding superior, Sergeant Douglas Holiday, “ - I’d feel much more useful being redeployed in the field.” Regardless of what had befallen his comrades, Harman knew he had a duty to fulfil, even more so, to honour their memories. “I understand, Harman, believe me, I do.”

“But you’re distressed; you’ve just faced a heavy loss; you aren’t gonna be thinking rationally right now, Corporal.” Holiday returned, coolly; he knew the toll it must have taken on Harman, no-one knew better, he would wager.

The command facility was a joint SFOD-D and Regular US Military Base, and was abuzz with the constant sounds of movement: Boots on the ground, Blackhawks in the sky, Harman would admit he enjoyed the sense of relative peace and familiarity here, as it harkened back to his early years as a fresh-faced F.N.G. with no idea about what he was getting himself into, but no, his place was in the battlefield; he had been trained to fight, and so to allow those skills to go into atrophy was a disservice to himself, and his country.

“Sergeant Holiday, sir, I have to get back out there. It’d allow me to take my mind off of this… this shit.” Harman was insistent, maintaining a fine line between persuasion, and pleading; he wasn’t willing to drop this, court marshal be damned.

Holiday sighed, seemingly understanding his plight. As he considered not only the ethics, but the strategic value of redeploying such an eager soldier, he lit a cigarette, and puffed on it, ponderously.

“Foxtrot.” Came Holiday’s decisive answer - “I’ll redeploy you as a member of the Foxtrot Team.”

“Foxtrot, sir?” Harman half-exclaimed, in disbelief; “I… It’d be an honour to serve with them.”

Holiday chuckled slightly, “Well, I’m taking a risk letting you join ‘em, but your combat record is pretty remarkable, so I suppose I’m willing to take that risk.”

Harman was in awe - If the Little Bird Team were the best of the best, then Foxtrot were the best of the best of the best, the baddest motherfuckers to grace the US Army, if he was to serve with them, he’d better get his shit sorted, and fast.

“You redeploy at ten-hundred hours, soldier! You better get your ass movin’, and start making me feel a little more comfortable about my decision! Get moving!” Ordered the Sergeant, as Harman made a brisk and co-ordinated jog to where he would prepare.

He was sent to meet the members of his team - a five-man squad consisting of experienced members of the SFOD-D; he would certainly be taking the role of the Rookie on this op, no doubt about it.

Overall, they seemed generally pleasant, not as talkative as Harman would’ve liked, but as pleasant as hardened combat veterans could be, he supposed.

He was to report to an ‘A. Shepard’, veritably the eponymous face to his handler, code-name ‘Den Mother’, who offered his condolences concerning the fate of the Little Bird Team.

He was gathered with the rest of Foxtrot at the landing pad, in preparation for deployment. Harman had found that the wait for the inevitable bloodshed was by far the worst part of his job; he much preferred to be in the moment, as opposed to waiting for the moment.

“You’re Little Bird, right?” Came fellow Corporal Luke Jacobs, who was to accompany Harman, alongside the rest of Foxtrot, to infiltrate the Armacham Headquarters dominating the skyline of the outskirts of Fairport’s Auburn District, in order to investigate a disturbance. “Yeah… I was.” Harman was hesitant to discuss the finer details as to what happened with the rest of his team, as he didn’t know how they would react. Would they scorn him for being unable to help? Would they understand?

“That’s rough, brother. I’m sorry.” Jacobs intoned; it seemed, at least with this particular operative, it was the latter.

The sheer viscera of it still naturally haunted Harman; He had seen no small amount of gore before, in his career, men, detonated under their feet, shred apart by round after round of machine-gun fire - It was the inexplicability of their fates that crushed him, some unseen force had undone years of rigorous training and experience in mere seconds.

“Thanks.” Uttered the man, unsure, particularly, as to what he should say.

“Alright, People!” Called their lieutenant, prompting the members of Foxtrot, as well as its newfound progeny, to stand to attention. “We are gonna get up there, and make sure it’s all quiet. There are reports of an unknown number of hostiles in the area, including their ‘commander’, who goes by the name of Paxton Fettel, so I’d recommend that you ladies turn the safeties off once you’re inside!” The lieutenant was face-to-face with Harman, now, an intimidation tactic he had seen used multiple times in order to quell insubordination. He clearly saw him as a liability, and thus Harman was ever more so determined to prove him wrong.

“If they’re holding a weapon,” the lieutenant continued, in his gruff intonations, “And they’re not us,” he was almost circling the group now, evaluating each of them for signs of weakness,

_“Shoot to kill.”_


	3. SHOOT TO KILL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disturbance has been reported at Armacham headquarters. Replica soldiers may be involved.
> 
> SFOD-D has been deployed to assess the nature of the threat.

Same procedure as before.

Prepare.

Attach the wire.

Descend.

Deploy.

The rigmarole had been ingrained in his skull for over two years now, and he was in no mood to allow that to change.

The Armacham Headquarters were strikingly unassuming; your regular high rise office complex, the facade only mitigated by the existence of a Helicopter landing pad, which went unused by the SFOD-D in order to circumnavigate any enemy forces.

Instead they rappelled to the roof, and entered, as silently as possible, through a skylight window.

Foxtrot was to sweep the area for signs of hostiles, of which, thus far, they had encountered exactly zero.

Which was exactly was Harman felt so on edge.

So far it was stagnant. The quiet seeped through the very core of the place, yet there were signs of life, at least signs of the previous occupants of the building perhaps still remaining. Whatever disturbance they had been called to investigate was either long gone, or dangerously close-by.

Foxtrot only spoke when necessary, issuing hand signals and whispered orders of varying command, and so Harman emulated this fairly succinctly, ensuring no corner went unexplored, and checked. If sweeping were a sport, he would have at least obtained a silver medal.

Once the team had reached the tenth floor, (they had decided to sweep the lower floors first, in an attempt to confuse the unknown hostiles) the lieutenant ordered a split; Jacobs and Harman were to advance to the eleventh floor, whilst the others would investigate the other areas of the tenth, and ninth floors.

The darkness of the place had begun to be fully realised, now; most of the sources of lights had either been shut down, or in a state of disrepair.

“Keep your eyes front, Jacobs advised, “And I’ll keep ‘em on our flank.”

Harman did as he was told, and kept his weapon in a defensive position - he wasn’t about to be taken unawares, not again. He had to hand it to Armacham, their interior decorating quelled any sense of a person feeling significant, instead they must feel like a rodent, trapped in the labyrinthine halls and lobbies of the company, which was only furthered by the absence of most of the lights.

The bottommost sweep was completed with relative ease, the eleventh floor being more of a lobby in that area, whilst, atop a balconied floor was situated the offices, which the two proceeded onwards to, following their primary sweep.

“You should radio in to Command and report that we’re on the eleventh floor.” Affirmed Jacobs, whom Harman was becoming increasingly grateful to have accompanied him; in his focus, and intent on remaining alert, he had neglected one of his most important procedures.

“Right, yeah. I’ll do it now.”

“Den Mother, this is Foxtrot, we’ve reached the eleventh floor. No signs of Fettel.”

The radio reply came almost instantaneously, with Shepard’s voice coming faintly through, the signal seemingly weakened somewhat: “Roger that Foxtrot - - Reporting -“ Den Mother was ablaze with static, forcing out an incomprehensibility with it, prompting Harman to ask for a repeat:

“Repeat, Den Mother, you’re breaking up.”

He was greeted with nothing but white noise, and thus assumed they were to follow their original orders. “We lost contact.” Harman murmured, an undertone of frustration present in his voice. 

“Let’s continue our sweep.” Harman suggested, almost monotone; it felt odd to be giving orders, particularly when he was the F.N.G. of the Team, but Jacobs didn’t seem to have any qualms over his command, and silently, but mutually agreed.

They were to rendezvous with the rest of their team at the tenth floor elevator lobby once they had completed their sweep.

As they endeavoured down the hall, the control panels sporting Armacham’s logo acted as one of the only scant sources of light, which seemed ironic, due to the shady nature of which the company had begun to be entrenched in.

They took a right, to another set of hallways, that had, attached to them, more office space behind light glass panes. The darkness seemed to feel slightly heavier, now, and thus they resolved to activate their flashlights, taking care to check each of the office spaces as they came, until they had arrived at a long expanse of offices, garbed in glass on each side, and equally as unassuming as the rest of the building.

A storm of hot, military-grade lead came ripping through the air, rending the glass into volatile, knifing projectiles that seemed equally as intent to kill them as the bullets did.

The two SFOD-D operatives threw themselves to the ground, and through the adjacent glass panes, in an attempt to outlast the bullets screaming at 1,700 Miles Per Hour directed at their heads.

They had managed to gain cover from an overturned wooden table, luckily sporting a metallic underside, “Shit, we’ve gotta return fire!” Jacobs called, struggling to hear even the sound of his own voice over the gunfire. “You give me some suppressing fire, and I’ll engage!” Harman returned, his voice strained.

Jacobs swiftly brought up his rifle and fired, blindly over the table towards the general direction of their aggressors, who were issuing commands of own, in disturbingly similar tones to one another. Seizing the opportunity, Harman readied his G2A2 Assault Rifle, a heavier model than his usual submachine-gun, but an effective weapon for most combat scenarios, such as being beset upon by ambushing soldiers, as they were now.

He fired his rifle, hitting one of the armour-clad combatants square in the head, sending him backwards into a stack of papers, which spilled across the floor. The recoil was slightly unprecedented, but bearable; he would much prefer a fractured wrist, or a broken shoulder than a bullet to the brain. “Damn it!” Harman was forced back into his retreat when a torrent of bullets obliterated a plant close to him, “I’m gonna try going around!” He shouted, hoping to god that whoever was shooting at them couldn’t hear them, he waited for no reply, and dived behind them, and began to crawl around them, utilising tables, chairs and computers as cover.

Once he had situated himself slightly to the right of his more central teammate, he opened fire, seemingly catching them somewhat off-guard, and firing into the chest of one, and the left side of the arm of another. He counted two remaining hostiles, one on either side of the adjacent room, unleashing deadly hell towards their close proximity. Jacobs managed to dispatch the westernmost enemy, whilst the other was pushed into a defensive stratagem.

Knowing that a singular foe would pose little threat, Harman charged towards the final hostile, with almost reckless abandon, and dug his boot into the faceless enemy, before finishing his life with a well-placed, final shot.

“Jesus Christ.” Jacobs’ voice seemed relived, but shaken somewhat, “Yeah, fucking ambush.” Confirmed his counterpart, as he identified their hostiles.

“Replicas.” Though he had no idea what the name precisely connoted, he had a few theories. They were, at the very least, the unknown aggressors that very likely had been the end of Little Bird, and so he felt no remorse for putting down bastards that could do such a thing.

“We should continue, John.” Jacobs’ asked, shrouded half in darkness, looking, at a glance, like a shadowed figure from a nightmare.

Though, Harman supposed, that was the whole idea.

The next few rooms presented nothing of merit, until they had reached a foyer-like area, which, as per their assumptions, was a point of yet another ambush, which with the burden of foresight proved to be easily undone, due to the smaller numbers of this second ambush, and a larger area to manoeuvre themselves in.

They ascended the stairs following the ordeal, and continued on.

Two black figures, juxtaposed against the red walls, proved to be easily visible targets to the militant Replicas, who opened fire, once again.

The two operatives worked in tandem, each taking a side, and slowly moved along, dispatching the hostile forces as they did, all the while taking care in planting themselves firmly against cover.

They met in the middle, and began their solemn march once more, pacing down the drab and almost identical corridors and office spaces until they had reached another wider, lobby area, accentuated by fervid shrieks, and screams, the two sprinted out of the darkness, into a scene of pure carnage.

A heavily armoured Replica had engaged two other members of Foxtrot atop a balcony, or another SFOD-D Team, and had succeeded in ending the life of once such operative on the lower floor, whose blood now painted the grey industrial walls of the eleventh floor’s elevator lobby.

The brute was several feet taller than both men, and uttered not a word, as it focused its fire on the operative situated on the balcony.

Harman and Jacobs’ unloaded a few bullets into the armoured unit’s head, which proved darkly ineffective, the lead, crushed on impact, and ricocheted back towards the ground. However, it did draw the attention of the aggressor, who began firing its advanced weapon at the two, forcing them to scramble for cover in an attempt to deploy the same two-pronged tactics that had succeeded thus far.

The bullets seemed nothing but blanks to the industrial-clad behemoth of a soldier, and so Jacobs, he realised, had an alternate proposal.

Jacobs, being in an inefficient position to accurately target the looming figure, tossed a grenade towards Harman, who jumped back slightly instinctually but caught it nonetheless, fearing it to be live, however the pin remained, and so, Harman tore the pin off, propelling it forth towards the enemy.

Jacobs ran and jumped sideways, whilst Harman and the third, higher operative took cover and braced themselves -

The resulting explosion near enough ruptured the eardrums of all in close proximity, though the structural integrity of the building, however obfuscated, remained unchanged.

Once the smoke had all but cleared, the crimson shade that permeated the very air of the lobby confirmed that the deed was done, and their plan was successful.

“You okay down there?” The other Operative, whom Harman had discerned was not part of Foxtrot, and instead another team, based on the voice, said, concerned. Harman offered no reply, for he was fixated with the crimson pool in which he stood in, his reflection glinting up at him. The body parts were strewn across the room.

Too messy.

That wasn’t what killed them.

Something other than a grenade.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined what actually had befallen them; he had already ran through multiple scenarios in his head: mines, grenades, goddamn plasma weaponry, none of them came close to the sheer decimation of which they had faced.

“We’ve lost contact with Den Mother.” Jacobs remarked to the other operatives, “Same here. All we get is static.” Came the operative; “Alright, let’s regroup on the Tenth floor, East elevator lobby.” The Operative continued.

“Yeah, sounds like a plan. We’ll take the elevator down to the tenth floor, and rendezvous at the lobby, copy that.” Jacobs’ voice shook him from his rumination, as he beckoned Harman into the elevator.


	4. CRIMSON, ON BLOODIED CRIMSON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something’s wrong.

The elevator was fairly small, and minimalistic; its’ walls a dull white, amongst the faux-marble flooring. Harman had always hated elevators, particularly when on an operation. It’s a valuable choke-point that often makes it one of the easier strategic points to perform an ambush - he should know, he’d carried out hundreds of them during his time with the SFOD-D, and more beforehand.

Jacobs inputted their destination into the keypad, which gave a short ‘ding’ on contact, and the doors closed shut.

The rumbling of the metal sarcophagus in which they had entrapped themselves gave way to a curt ringing, which grew in sharpness, and severity. Harman felt oddly numb, as if mildly anaesthetised, the ringing continued, far more violent than the most crippling of tinnitus.

Then the lights gave out.

For a few brief seconds, there was nothing but blackness.

_ The lights are on again, now. _

_ But brighter. _

_ Ever brighter. _

_ He looks around, in fear. _

_ They both look. _

_ And they see. _

_ Crimson. _

_ On bloodied crimson. _

_ The whispers of the damned. _

_ They tear through his head. _

_ It drips from above. _

_ A pool of blackened red. _

_ Seeping through his soul. _

_ Darkness, once more. _

_ Where he stood, death. _

_ Death. _

_ It lunges for him. _

_ Hungers. _

_ But it dies. _

_ He did this. _

The sounds of the spattering of blood drowned his ears, and the sight of a bullet to the brain attacked his eyes.

It took him a good ten seconds for his mind to recalibrate itself back to normality. 

What he looked upon made him want to stay in wonderland.

He had done it. He was sure of it. 

Why?

There was a flowing hole in Jacobs’ head, oozing blood, not daring to cease. Harman had to combat, with all his rigour, the urge to vomit, right there, and then. 

“FUCK!” Harman screamed, caring nothing for the attention his noise could bring. How could he have done this? He shot him, point blank.

He was a murderer. If he wasn’t before.

He gunned down a man in cold blood. A man who trusted him.

Harman dropped to the ground, kneeling over his fallen partner. No amount of first-aid would undo the evil that he had wrought.

He thought he might radio command, and tell them that one of their operatives wouldn’t be returning to base, but either by human error, or Replicas, using a signal-jammer, there was nothing.

Nothing.

It was as if his mind were set alight. If he stayed, and mourned, or even tried to sufficiently register what had happened, the Replica Forces could locate him at any second. No, his only hope was to press on, and make his way to the elevator lobby, if he wanted even a small chance of survival.

Harman felt disturbingly exposed without his squadmate; Replicas could be waiting around any, and every corner, ready to reciprocate the same brutality as Harman enacted upon Jacobs, and he would deserve it, too.

He made his way to a block of office cubicles, outlined by drab, pale walls, and an entrenched atmosphere of dread, and crouched down low against the closest cubicle; he wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He stalked around the circumference of the office-space, taking care to evade any would-be aggressors, until he came to the end of the cubicles, upon which, he noticed a small contingency of Replicas, waiting in cover at the end. He counted five hostiles; four regular Replicas, and a heavily armoured unit, akin to the one they had detonated in the eleventh floor elevator lobby.

Five to one.

Bad odds.

Rather than engage them head-on, or engage them at all, he resolved to sneak around. With Jacobs, he might’ve stood a chance against them in a firefight, but alone, there was no chance.

As he crept behind enemy lines, he noticed an SFOD-D Operative on the upper walkway, opposite to Harman, which was shrouded in obfuscating glass. He hoped to Hell that the Replica forces wouldn’t notice both the operative, and himself.

The operative seemed wholly oblivious to the aggressors below, which, fortunately was returned, in kind, by the Replicas, who failed to notice him.

As Harman watched the operative patrol past the window, a searing pain wrapped itself around his head, feeling almost vice-like upon his brain. Harman had to bite hard into his tongue to stop him from shouting out in pain; it had made him stumble, somewhat, though he generated little noise. Harman looked up again at the operative, but found to his horror, nothing but blood smeared up the glass, bathing the room in a sickly red hue.

Wishing not to meet the same fate, Harman picked up his speed somewhat, and manoeuvred himself around the corner, hiding himself from his enemy’s view. His breathing was heavy, as a bout of terror had overtaken him; just what the fuck was killing his squadmates? It was too messy to be a Replica, too quiet and clean to be a grenade detonation, so unless Armacham had somehow invented a silent explosive, he was completely lost.

He took a moment to compose what he had left, and found himself facing an incomplete, drywall room, clearly in the process of construction. He reminded himself he had to keep moving, and laboured to remain on his feet. The crippling pain he felt in his head had dulled somewhat, though still remained present.

As he continued, a figure, more like a red small blur, darted past him into the darkness, followed by a faint, almost ethereal, disembodied giggle, though Harman wasn’t focusing; he had to get the fuck out of this situation before he was ripped to shreds.

The rooms were drab, and filled with scaffolding, and construction equipment. Due to the incompletion, the sources of light were sparse, prompting Harman to active his flashlight. He felt more isolated by the minute, though he had the notion that he was being watched; perhaps a Replica was tailing him, but surely they would’ve just shot him? His mind was an erratic mess of speculations, grief, and fear.

As he turned the corner into a wider space, the heavy sound of combat-booted footsteps echoed in front of him; he had no idea of their numbers, but hopefully he could get the drop on them. Harman pushed himself flat up against the wall, and waited.

The first Replica walked straight into the bullet, and came crashing down, with little more than a groan. The others became alerted to the soldier’s presence, and returned fire. In the midst of the battle, the lights flickered and sparked, with some shutting off completely. The low walls proved to be sufficient cover, with Harman relocating his position with each Replica downed. One combatant was only visible due to the red glow of his visor, which transfigured into an easy-to-see bullseye; two well-placed bullets into the head, and it was over.

The silence following the gunfight was palpable; it was almost as if Harman longed for an enemy presence, if only to assuage his aloneness for a brief period. He checked the bodies - there had been four of them. He had done well.

The corners of the area seemed tilted somewhat, as he reached the beginning of a narrow hallway.

At its precipice, stood a small figure.

A child, or so it seemed to Harman. A little girl.

Harman moved slowly towards her, not wishing to scare the girl, who just stood there.

_Watching._

The room seemed to lurch and tilt, as a familiar ringing sound tore through his ears.

Harman had began to notice that something was wrong. Her face didn’t seem right. Like a waxy, pale mask, obscuring her true intent. Her feet were smeared in the same colour as her dress;

Crimson, on bloodied crimson.

And then she was gone.


	5. POINT OF ORIGIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can’t be happening.

The girl had vanished.

Faded away like some unknowable wisp of ashen smoke.

Harman stood, transfixing at where he just saw a child just disappear in front of his eyes as if she were never there at all.

“What the fuck is happening?” He murmured, too afraid to make any notable noise. He was shaken. Never, in all his years, had he experienced such mindfuckery as he had in the past twenty-four hours.

He had watched his entire squad be reduced to naught but blood and bone.

He had ended the life of the one person who had placed his trust in him.

And now, he had watched a little girl disappear in front of his eyes.

“What the fuck, man?” 

“I… I gotta be fuckin’ losing it.”

“God damn…”

Harman still had only one opportunity for survival, to rendezvous with the rest of his squad, and so, with his only motivation that of his own self-preservation now, he staggered on, ensuring his weapon was raised at every moment.

He had left the confines of the narrow construction site now, and had found himself within a larger space.

“Quiet down!” A harsh voice, unmistakable, as Harman had heard the same intonations throughout the night now, to be a Replica, behind the door he had arrived at.

Another ambush.

This time, Harman exercised a different tactic; planting his foot into the wooden door, forcing it open. He turned left to where the voices had emanated from, and unleashed his clip into the bodies of the Replica Soldiers buried into a small alcove, and dived behind the same cover that his now dead aggressors had utilised, and launched a grenade overhead, which detonated on impact, sending an inferno hurtling down upon the remaining soldiers.

Dust choked the area, now, which Harman took as his signal to exit, continuing through room upon room, until, as if on a sensor, a nearby window erupted without any cause, sending shards of glass cascading towards the lone operative, which was thankfully deflected by his combat armour. He advanced, attempting to remain unshaken, when a voice, from out of nowhere, filled his ears with its harsh whisper:

_“Give them back to me.”_

Harman’s eyes darted to every crevice in the room, trying to find the whisper’s point of origin, but found only darkness.

The void.

“Where are you goddamnit?!” Harman exclaimed, feeling as if he was losing both his patience, and his mind. 

He sped up now, fearing that his slowed pace could result in his end; he just wanted to see another human being again; he wasn’t sure that the Replicas were even ‘alive’, let alone ‘Human’.

Another corridor, filled with nothing but almost corrosive shadow faced him now. Harman reached for the switch on his chest to activate his flashlight, but it produced only the meekest of flickers. After a few unsuccessful attempts of producing light, he gave up, and submerged himself into the darkness.

In his mind’s eye, he comprised a list of all the things that could be waiting in the inky blackness; Replicas, turrets, mines,

_Her._

These dark thoughts were broken by the familiar sound of one of his comrades, a Foxtrot operative.

He had found them, at long last.

Though, it seemed that Jacobs was not the only one to had been claimed by whatever forces had overtaken the building, as there were only two other operatives present besides Harman, one of which was attempting to contact Den Mother.

“We lost Borashov.” The Operative recounted into his radio, “He was right behind me, then he was just gone.” The garbled static of his radio replied, but was barely discernible; “Den Mother, Den Mother, we lost a man. Repeat. We lost a man. Den Mother!”

No reply.

“Goddamnit!” The other Operative threw up his hands in annoyance. Harman merely stood beside him, unsure of what to say. 

Harman’s own radio erupted with static, equally as indecipherable as his squadmate’s. “Repeat. Den Mother, you’re breaking up!” Harman strained his ears in a vain attempt to understand the white noise of his radio, but found no such comfort.

The white noise continued long after Harman had turned his radio off.

_It was coming from his head, now._

The lobby was almost identical to the one that Jacobs and Harman had patrolled upon reaching the eleventh floor.

A mechanical whirring from the furthest elevator echoed from below them.

Either it was a squad of Replica Soldiers making their way up, or the remaining members of the SFOD-D.

Regardless, all three Operatives raised their rifles, as the metal doors forced themselves open.

The white noise had given way to an unbearable ringing, again, punctuated by whispers, and screams, that picked and tore at Harman’s mind, threatening to split it open.

The elevator was agape, revealing that same small figure Harman watched dissipate into nothingness only minutes before.

_The inferno follows her, curling it’s bleak tendrils around the room._

_Time is dead._

_She does not speak._

_The first of the toy soldiers, she rips into the air._

_They are bathed in blood and viscera._

_The second, she turns into a crimson mist._

_They deserve to die._

_The third._

_The third is the one._

_The one that can hear her whispers. _

_Her cries._

_Her screams._

_The third does not die._

_The third is still, frozen with dread._

_And FEAR._


End file.
